


bodies, cloth'd

by m_madeleine



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Bodyswap, Clothing Kink, M/M, Mild Sexual Content, Pining, history of fashion, trousers through the ages
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-15
Updated: 2019-09-15
Packaged: 2020-10-11 21:10:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,203
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20552759
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/m_madeleine/pseuds/m_madeleine
Summary: Aziraphale has always had a bit too much of a thing for Crowley's trousers. Ever since trousers have existed, in fact.





	bodies, cloth'd

**Author's Note:**

  * For [privatesnarker](https://archiveofourown.org/users/privatesnarker/gifts).

> Written for the "non-body fetish" square on my Seasons of Kink card. 
> 
> Thank you so much to privatesnarker for giving me some great fashion history advice and rescuing this from the discarded pile when I least believed in it, _as well as_ putting it through a much needed last round of beta. Wouldn't have been possible without you, friend <3 Also thank you to simplecoffee, resident denim expert, for very competently answering my jeans questions.
> 
> Title is a play on a quote from John Donne's _To His Mistress Going to Bed_: "bodies uncloth’d must be, / To taste whole joys" ...well, Mr Donne. Looks like they don't? :D

These days, people might say Aziraphale is not much of a fashionable person, and on the whole, they would be right. However, it hasn’t always been this way. In fact, Aziraphale rather enjoys a well-tailored piece; it’s just that fashion moves quicker and quicker and he does not see why he should give up a favourite garment simply because humans have grown bored of it. 

Crowley, on the other hand, has always been chasing the latest. And Aziraphale has always been keeping an eye on him — mainly to ascertain whatever outlandish garment will be in fashion next, so he can prepare himself for the inevitability of having to give some lip service to it at some point. 

For instance, of course, it had been Crowley who first wore trousers.

***

“Good heavens, where have you been?” Aziraphale exclaims in 150 AD, unable to stop watching how the fabric shifts and follows Crowley’s gait.

“Minor temptation behind the Limes,” Crowley replies, scratching at his impressive full beard, and following Aziraphale’s gaze down himself. “That? Oh, you know, Germanics, they go for that sort of thing. You should try it sometime. A great improvement for horseback riding, for one. Doesn’t improve horses, but don’t think that’s possible-”

Crowley refuses to change before they chance another oyster restaurant (not as good as Petronius’s, of course). He draws a lot of eyes in his Barbaric get-up; in fact, it turns out quite a scandal. The restaurant refuses them service. Aziraphale has had better nights, to say the least.

“Come on, I’ll make it up to you,” Crowley calls, arms wide in a shrug, sauntering down the street turned to Aziraphale, still in his ridiculous trousers. “My treat — giraffe steak, bloody flamingo tongue, whatever you want.”

With a snap, he’s back to a toga. Black, of course. 

“There, happy?” 

“Much better,” Aziraphale says, realizing in that very moment that for some inexplicable reason, he didn’t quite mean it. “Well then… _giraffe_, really?”

***

Of course, eventually Aziraphale too must go with the times. It would not do to stand out. Having his legs displayed to the world takes quite a while to get used to; after all, trousers are so strangely revealing, considering how much skin they cover. Not that he feels self-conscious about his form, he would not think to be. It serves him to his satisfaction and that is all there is to it. Which doesn’t mean he can’t have some admiration for how well-constructed Crowley’s is. 

The demon has never not favoured black and with the onset of trousers, the dark fabric accentuates the slimness of his silhouette even more. Aziraphale tries not to look too much, but there is something about the mystery of fabric sliding against skin, making it semi-hidden and semi-displayed, which would intrigue anybody. Wouldn’t it?

It takes Aziraphale a couple of centuries to get used to the sight of skin-tight hose, though it takes some effort to get over the disappearance of slops and the advent of breeches that hug the thighs just _so_, too. At least the behind is still covered by long coats. Mid-17th century, the hose makes way to somewhat looser trousers and he breathes deeply once again. Of course, it’s not long before calves are back on display. 

Crowley wears all of it well. Tight, well-cut garments from fine dark cloth, dark embellishments on dark fabric, black on black on black. So what if Aziraphale cannot help his eyes flickering down when Crowley manifests in the Bastille. It’s Crowley’s fault for being ostentatious, isn’t it?

***

In 1856, Aziraphale is getting a new pair of trousers tailored on Savile Row. The prospect of bespoke new clothing is exciting, the long process of measuring less so. His mind wanders of its own accord and as so often, it lands on Crowley. Aziraphale hasn’t seen him in quite a while, which makes him rather nervous. And naturally so, as that means he doesn’t know what Crowley’s up to. 

Aziraphale imagines that if they didn’t have the Arrangement (he winces at even allowing himself to think of it), Crowley would be quite a difficult fiend to thwart. While he favours small inconveniences, he is rather unpredictable. There is a pattern to be analysed from his actions, but he is far too impatient and changeable not to divert wildly. 

He doesn’t even bother with tailoring, the way Aziraphale does. A pity, really. Frequenting the same tailor would be such a conveniently clandestine meeting space. And wouldn’t it be interesting to see Crowley make his sartorial choices right in front of him? He imagines Crowley fussing over the details of fabric choice and has to smile. 

Then, the tailor’s hands run lightly along his inseam and to his horror, Aziraphale finds a strange tingle running down his back. He overcompensates, vanishing his Effort in a panic, which is bound to wreak havoc on the tailoring later. The heat inside of him fails to disappear.

He looks down at the tailor, a respectable gentleman with whom he has kept up a friendly but distant relationship for about 30 years. Of course not. Who is he kidding?

Aziraphale cannot even tell whether he’d want Crowley on his knees for him, or himself for Crowley, or maybe someone else entirely while he watches; he doesn’t let himself think that far. At any rate, he goes back to the book shop and spends a long time taking care of himself. It’s the first time he’s ever ventured to try the act, but he’s simply never been curious enough before. Now, he feels like he has no choice but to seek relief from the feverish ache, until he spills into his palm with a cry. After, he cleans up the human way, to avoid attracting attention from above.

Well, he’s arrived at a point where he can’t lie to himself anymore. The realization irks him and it might have been that which got him a bit snappish in St James. Aziraphle regrets it for a long time. And the vexation over Crowley’s ridiculous request mixes rather badly with his newfound physical affections for him, too. A whole mess, all around. 

***

Despite it all, Aziraphale is rather glad to see Crowley again in 1941. When is he not, really? The demon does get him out of difficult situations so well and this is such a confusing mess.

Confusing enough that he should have many things on his mind, and none of them should concern Crowley’s wardrobe. And yet. He can’t help but notice, in between the twists and the threats and the back and forths, that Crowley’s trousers run slimmer than he is used to seeing on fashionable gentlemen in the streets. It’s almost a tired observation. Here they go again, his pesky newfound feelings. It’s only later, clutching the handle of the briefcase, he realizes something _else _has changed, too. 

The thought takes a while to unfurl. Crowley drives him home in his new automobile and being thrust into such a small space together is too much. Overstimulation from the outside flashing by mixes with the strangle tingles in his stomach, and Aziraphale is so full of joy and anxiety at once, it steals the air from his lungs.

After Crowley has driven off, Aziraphale locks himself in the back room of the bookshop and spends half the night trying to catch his breath, nursing a glass (or two) of Scotch; thinking, again and again, of Crowley, sauntering through history, and all the way into a church that burned his feet, all for him. 

It takes until the morning for the overflowing of emotions to stop, leaving dread in its wake. 

He can’t. He _can’t._

***

It would do to get some distance after that. Aziraphale manages to hold out for less than 30 years, especially after hearing those troubling rumours of Crowley’s heist. He feels twisted beyond measure and yet, despite knowing it would have no effect in the worst-case scenario, he still puts all his most fervent prayers into the blessing of the water. To protect him, only. Never ever to harm. 

He’s not certain why he suggests the Ritz, after. It’s rather more his own style than Crowley’s, still stuck in days gone by. Maybe it’s because occasionally he sees people dressed not unlike Crowley there; music executives no doubt, the kind that produce the bebop the demon has gotten so fond of. Their fashions are always provocative, yet none wear them quite as well as Crowley.

Aziraphale excuses himself, the first disastrous car ride still on his mind, before the desperate craving starts again. He can’t.

***

He does find himself staying away less. He missed Crowley — and they can be friendly associates, even despite Aziraphale’s predicament, can’t they?

Aziraphale never manages to develop a fondness for most sartorial inventions of the 20th century — most inventions of the 20th century in general, likely. He’s not sure if seeing them on Crowley should make him thankful, or just hate them more.

The leather trousers are, thankfully, a fluke. Crowley wears them as part of his disguise at one of the newly sprung up counterculture festivals. Aziraphale is there as well. No one there has religion on their mind, but that doesn’t matter. They are promoting love and peace, protesting weapons of mass destruction. And at the same time, committing adultery, sodomy, blasphemy, living in excess, following the pull of their fragile human bodies. It’s already strange, even not counting his efforts to keep his eyes above Crowley’s waist. It’s sin rubbing up against good. It’s _them. _He tries not to think about it too much.

They go to the local pub later. He’s been praying for a table and of course, none are free. They could miracle one, but Crowley seems to enjoy showing off, half-perched on a bar stool, half slipped-off, an expanse of long, long legs. Aziraphale finds himself rather at a loss for words the entire evening. Were he human, the night might well have ended in alcohol poisoning.

At least the 70s turned out to be rather awful, in terms of fashion. The horrid moustache alone was distraction enough. And yet knowing Crowley, the reprieves never last for long. Because when Crowley finds something he thoroughly enjoys, he does tend to stick with it for a while, even in this fast century. The car, for instance. He also seems particularly fond of the get-up he had first started to assemble in the late 1980s, all sleek lines and sharp angles. Aziraphale expects it to be a problem for quite a while. Especially now that they see a lot more of each other.

When Crowley first started wearing denim, Aziraphale sought it out, stupidly, in the kind of department store he would usually not be seen discorporated in. Of course, it was all still possible to rationalize. Curiosity was his trade, after all. He had amassed a good amount of knowledge about food, so why not textiles? Not for his own gain, of course, just for curiosity. 

It turns out denim has a unique rasp. Nothing like the kind of fabric befitting an angel, all softness on softness, like pastel clouds; instead, it seems rugged, rough-hewn. But then, Crowley’s trousers seem yet different, a slight sleek sheen to them, like something a snake would shed. 

Aziraphale can’t find anything quite like them. He wonders if it would help if he did. Surely then he would stop wondering what they would feel like to the touch.

***

Perhaps it’s not the most appropriate reaction, but one of Aziraphale’s first thoughts after his discorporation is of his clothes — such a pity they burned up with his body, he had been so fond of them. It takes longer for the more abstract complexities of the situation to catch up with him. And there is no time for any kind of crises of faith, really. All the same, he does wish She had listened.

On the other hand, he thinks with newfound defiance, if no one is listening to him, then maybe no one really cares about him, or what he’s doing. Oh, the angels do, for sure. But that doesn’t matter so much now, doubly so after all the appalling behaviour he’s witnessed. Only the Almighty’s opinion holds true importance, and more and more, Aziraphale believes he will never know. 

So maybe none of what he had feared for so long matters at all. 

The realization leaves him dizzy. If so, he can be free. He can do good the way he wants it. He can— 

Crowley. 

Aziraphale chokes on the possibilities. Thankfully, there’s a world to save, first.

***

On the bus, Crowley’s hand is cool in his; the circle he’s rubbing into his palm burns like fire. The air feels all charged up and Aziraphale smells Crowley close to him, all smoke and gasoline; for once, he isn’t choking.

Despite everything, they hold out until they get to Crowley’s flat. There, Aziraphale is still gathering the courage, sipping on a red, when Crowley sets his wine glass back down with a clink, yanks him close and crushes their mouths together. Aziraphale flails, anxious with inexperience, not knowing where to put his hands. Crowley breaks away.

“Sorry, too fast–“

“No,” Aziraphale whispers, “no.” 

Paradoxically, for the first time in millennia, he is actually saying quite the opposite.

They make it to the bedroom in a flurry, then somehow to the bed, where Aziraphale finds out that no matter what, Crowley is still a demon, a being that will always revel in destruction. The fabric of his shirt creaks under Crowley’s grip as he presses him into the mattress. Aziraphale promptly miracles most of his clothes into a neat stack on a nearby chair before Crowley can do actual damage to them. He was so happy to have them back after all. 

Aziraphale has never been particularly affected by nudity, which has always just seemed rather natural to him; judging by the way Crowley stares down at him open-mouthed, the demon doesn’t share that assessment. In fact, Crowley positively gapes, and after a moment, scrambles to unbutton his own trousers and push them down. 

Aziraphale catches his hand. Crowley freezes. 

“Wha-”

Aziraphale throws him a small reassuring smile and leans up to kiss him again. 

“Be still? Just a minute, dear” he whispers against his lips and Crowley breathes out once, sharply — and does. And Aziraphale finally lets himself touch. 

He slides his hands over Crowley's arse and the back of his thighs. The fabric is smooth, even has a curious kind of softness he wouldn’t have expected from it. It hugs Crowley perfectly, throws a couple of waves and ripples where it’s stretched by the sharp edges of his form. Aziraphale is one for indulgence and he indulges now, in the last moments before he finally gets to have Crowley whole. At least until a light but pervasive tremor beneath the fabric makes him look up. 

Crowley’s eyes are always striking, but they’re positively glowing now, and Aziraphale can feel him clawing at the sheets next to his head in frustration. He presses his leg up and between Crowley’s thighs, against the hardness there, making Crowley groan. 

“Angel, you’re killing me here.”

His fingers tighten on the sheets so much Aziraphale hears the fabric beginning to tear, and he decides he’s had his fill. 

“Go on, dear,” he says, hooking his fingers in Crowley’s waistband. 

And Crowley doesn’t let himself be asked twice.

***

Aziraphale looks in the mirror and Crowley looks back. Well, almost Crowley. He hasn’t quite gotten him right yet. He schools his – Crowley’s – mouth into the rigid, downturned line he is so used to, but the softness still looks strange in the snake eyes. He has never been so grateful for the sunglasses.

He attempts to wipe his damp hands on Crowley’s trousers; no luck, as they are oddly unabsorbent. Less slippery than they look, too, but thin and with a lot of give. He wiggles his hips experimentally and decides he prefers the feel of them from the outside.

The door opens behind him. Crowley has not put on the character yet, features still in his customary half-frown. He’s in his shirtsleeves, but he’s tied the bow tie perfectly. It should not surprise Aziraphale, even though bow ties are far from Crowley’s repertoire. Maybe he miracled it. 

It’s strange seeing the frown on his own face, and perhaps that’s why he wants to smooth it out. It has simply never occurred to him when just looking at Crowley, and that hurts somehow. He should do better. He will. 

Crowley snorts at the sight of him and steps closer to help him with the scarf. It involves a lot of fussing around and the amount of effort to make the knick-knack fall just _so_ coaxes a small laugh out of Aziraphale. Crowley looks up at him, sharply. And shoves one hand into Aziraphale’s back pocket, pulling him flush, fingers digging into his arse and then the other is on his neck, tugging him down into a bruising kiss. 

It is a little like kissing yourself. And very much not. 

“Better go,” Crowley mutters against his lips after a while.

“Would not do to be late to your own execution, would it,” Aziraphale replies, eliciting a quiet snort from Crowley. 

Aziraphale rests his forehead against his. It’s strange, being taller, but he supposes the demon would simply not remember to get a crick in his neck. The thought burns like a promise. Sometime, after, there will be plenty of time to get cricks in their necks and bump noses and clash teeth like the imperfect humans they aren’t. There has to be.

Aziraphale tangles their fingers together. 

“Godspeed,” he says quietly and Crowley flinches back.

“Get your dirty words out of my mouth, angel,” he hisses with exasperation and yanks him down to kiss him again. 

***

Aziraphale is on his knees for Crowley. He’s thinking he should have been, long ago. After the Bastille, the sack of Rome, that time Crowley saved him from a Scottish highwayman. Especially after the church.

He rubs his cheek against the outline of Crowley’s hardness and Crowley hisses.

“Wait, lemme just—“ he mutters and raises his hand, presumably about to make his trousers disappear. 

Aziraphale catches his hand once again. Clears his throat. 

“Keep them on?”

“...what?”

Aziraphale can feel the flush spreading in his cheeks, but he steadies himself, toying Crowley’s zipper downwards in the meantime. 

“You heard me perfectly the first time.”

He hadn’t noticed on the first night, too overwhelmed with it all, but of course Crowley doesn’t wear underwear. His mind flashes with decades, if not centuries, of fantasies that could have been even more interesting, had he known. But well, enjoying the real thing now wins over daydreams, doesn't it?

“Uh. Yeah. Sure did,” Crowley stares down at him, aghast, all fogginess gone from his face. Then, a sly grin starts spreading instead. “So...my trousers? Really? And how long has that been– _Ahhh_.”

Quite a neat little trick, Aziraphale thinks, humming around a mouthful of Crowley. He’ll be sure to remember that one.

And perhaps he’ll even tell him more about the trousers, later. Perhaps. 


End file.
